This is a loooooong chapter, but it couldn't be broken up. It took me forever to write this, because I couldn't get it to come out right. I hope you guys like it, you're finally getting Spot's side of the story. Review please. Schnell! Rapido! Now! Only a few more chapters until the end . . . and then on to the sequel!

Disclaimer: Ninguno de esto es el mio. Es todo el Disney.

One lonely ray of light shone through the grime-coated window of the Brooklyn lodging house. Its light was weak and wavering, but it was enough to wake Spot Conlon. With a groan, he sat up in bed, glaring angrily at the insolent sunbeam that dared to disturb his sleep. Spot really, really wanted to sleep.

In the days since Pocket had walked out, sleep had become his only friend. Sleep meant he didn't have to think about the look on her face when she'd seen him, the searing pain that had darkened her green eyes to near blackness. Sleep meant he didn't have to torture himself imagining her in Manhattan on the arm of someone else, moving on, without him. Sleep meant respite from the memories that haunted him; memories of Pocket when they first met, hiding behind her boyish disguise. Memories of Pocket yelling headlines on the corner, jingling coins at the end of a good selling day, laughing as she beat him at cards. Sleep meant escape from the poignant images of their times alone together; waking up next to her, the taste of her on his lips.

Spot didn't want to think of those things because they made the ache in his chest unbearable. He wanted to forget about the times they'd shared together. Every memory brought with it the reminder that he hadn't just lost his girl - he'd lost his best friend. He missed her quiet understanding, her advice, her laughter.

At first, Spot had tried to distract himself with Brooklyn matters, tried to bury himself in his duties as leader. But even Brooklyn had lost its appeal, and he couldn't make himself care about the happenings in his city. Instead he'd retreated into himself, listening with less than half an ear to Fiver's daily updates. The only time Spot showed signs of life was at night, when Pocket's guards returned to Brooklyn. He listened greedily to their reports, selfishly hoarding every tiny tidbit of information. News of Pocket was as painful as it was precious, but it was all he had left to feel close to her. Hurt and ashamed, he listened to stories of her cold reception by the other newsies, and he longed to go to her. Pride and fear prevented him from rushing to her side, he couldn't risk the rejection he was sure to face.

And so Spot sat alone in his loft. Each day he spent in much the same manner as the day before, alternately sitting at the window or sprawled across his bed, staring sightlessly ahead. On this morning, as on others, he dragged himself out of bed where the scent of Pocket still clung to his sheets. He moved listlessly to the window, pressing his forehead against the dirty glass.

Spot heard the footsteps on the stairs but didn't turn, his gaze fixed on some distant horizon. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and stopped, but still he didn't look around.

"We needs ta talk, Conlon."

The voice jolted him from his reverie; Spot jerked around to face his visitor. Racetrack stood in the doorway, hands stuffed casually in his pockets, chin lifted in defiance. The Manhattaner shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. Coming to Brooklyn had been a bold move considering what transpired on his last visit. Blink and Skittery had insisted on joining him, but Fiver made them wait outside under the watchful eyes of the Brooklyn boys. Racetrack came to face Spot alone, and he now eyed the Brooklyn leader carefully, wary of retribution.

But none came. Spot didn't move from the window, only glanced briefly at Race before turning back to his silent watch over the city. The ache in his chest intensified as he suddenly realized that it wasn't just Pocket he'd lost. Spot had lost Racetrack too, the only other real friend he had besides Pocket. The only other person he could ever relax around, the only other person who saw him as Spot, just Spot, not Spot the King of Brooklyn.

Unnerved by the silence, Race looked nervously at Fiver, but Spot's lieutenant just shrugged. Before coming inside, Fiver had pulled Racetrack aside. Away from the ears of his friends and the watchful Brooky's, Race had listened as Fiver told him of Spot's recent behavior. How he'd torn apart his room in a fit of rage the morning after Pocket left. How he'd holed up in the loft in the days that followed, eating little and speaking less. Race had been skeptical of such a drastic change in the Brooklyn leader, but now the proof was right in front of him. Spot was broken, just like Pocket, and the big-hearted Italian wished desperately for a way to ease his friends' pain. Now was not the time for such concerns, though. There were more important matters to attend to.

Fiver spoke up. "Manhattan's got somethin ya should take a look at, boss," he said, shoving Racetrack forward.

Spot didn't react as Race stumbled over. The other boy took something out of his shirt pocket, a folded piece of paper. He held it out to Spot, waiting expectantly.

Spot glanced down at the paper, then back up at Race. "What's that?" he asked, his voice flat with indifference.

"You should read it, Spot," Race answered, still holding it out to him. "It's the banner, the Newsies' Banner, thought ya might find it interestin."

"The Newsies' Banner?" Spot repeated. "Whatch talkin' 'bout, Race?"

"This is the article that Denton wrote, before. Jack and him put this paper togetha, and we've been takin' it all over the city."

"Jack?" Spot looked up, eyes lit with the first spark of interest in days. "Jack?" he said again.

Race nodded. "Jack's back. And we're finishing the strike, once and for all. Manhattan's been spreadin' the word all mornin'. Not just to the newsies, eitha. We took it to all the kids in New York, all the kids who work their asses off for pennies while their bosses sit in cushy chairs and count their money."

Ractrack watched as Spot processed his words. When he didn't answer, Race got curious.

"So ya didn't know about Jack?" he asked doubtfully. "Thought for sure one a ya boidies woulda told ya."

Spot shook his head. "Don't got no boidies in 'Hattan since Slips got hoit," he said.

"But you do have boys in Manhattan," Race said shrewdly. "I seen 'em."

Spot's shoulders slumped, his eyes once again fading to a dull, lifeless gray.

"They's not there ta look afta Manhattan. They's just there ta look afta Pocket." He winced as he said her name, looking away.

Racetrack didn't miss the telltale sheen of moisture in Spot's eyes, but he didn't say anything about it. Instead he turned to Fiver, nodding encouragingly.

"Why dontcha go check on Blink and Skitts, make they's still in one piece," he suggested. "Got some things to discuss with Spot. In private."

Fiver hesistated, looking to Spot for confirmation. The Brooklyn leader lifted his hand in a half hearted wave, gesturing weakly for Fiver to go. With a warning look at Racetrack, the second in command turned to leave.

When they were alone, Race returned his attention to his erstwhile friend. Spot was back to staring out the window, leaning heavily against the window frame as though his legs wouldn't hold him. Race watched him for a moment, unsure how to broach such a delicate subject.

It was Spot who broke the silence, the words torn from his throat when he could no longer hold back.

"How is she?" he begged.

Racetrack sighed and looked at his feet. He debated the best answer, knowing that Pocket would prefer that he keep her misery a secret. In the end he opted for honesty, unable to lie in the face of Spot's naked anguish.

"Not good," he admitted. "She's been wearin herself out, traipsin' all ovah the city, pleadin' with the othah leaders to stay with the strike. They all turned her away, and that ain't sittin well with her."

Spot waved his words aside impatiently. "I know all that," he huffed. "But how is she? Ya gotta tell me."

Racetrack forced himself to meet Spot's eyes. "How d'ya think she is? She's miserable." Race didn't bother to keep the censure out of his voice. "She ain't talkin ta nobody 'cept Slips, an' it took a fight ta get her ta eat somethin. She ain't sleepin, eitha, just lays in bed lookin' at the wall. She ain't lookin so good, Spot. Mattah o' fact, she looks an awful lot like you."

"She say anythin?" Spot asked. "About . . . me?"

Racetrack's eyes hardened at the memory of Pocket's tears. "Yeah, she did," he said bluntly. "She cried in my arms that night, Conlon, but she ain't cried since. Said she couldn't believe ya'd do somethin like that. Not when she'd always trusted ya."

Spot hung his head in shame.

"I didn't mean ta hoit her," he muttered. "I was just so mad, and hoit, when she said she didn't wanna be me goil no more." He looked at Race, eyes pleading for understanding. "Came back to Brooklyn an' started drinkin. Kept tellin' myself she'd change her mind, but it didn't do no good." He stopped, turning again to the window.

"Me boys started drinkin too," he continued tonelessly, in the manner of one discussing the weather. "'Fore long da whole place was fulla people. Dis goil kept followin me, tryin' ta climb in me lap whiles I was playin cards. But I kept pushin her away. I did," he insisted at Race's disbelieving snort.

"She didn't get it, thought," Spot resumed his story, the words coming faster now. "Finally I just got up. Didn't wanna be there no more. Wanted ta go see Pocket, but I was too damn drunk ta make it very far. Decided ta get some sleep an' go to Manhattan in da morning. On da way upstairs I hoid some a me boys talkin, didn't know I was listenin."

He paused again, remembering. "Dey was sayin' how funny it was ta see da King a' Brooklyn all torn up ovah a goil. Said I was pushin' that othah goil away cuz I lost my touch." He grimaced. "Dat just pissed me off more. Went upstairs and laid down. Afta a while, dat goil came up afta me. Woke me up, she did, climbin inta me bed. I was sleepin, dat's why I didn't have no clothes on," he informed Racetrack. "She was all ovah me, kissin on me. All I could think of was she didn't taste nothin like Pocket an' her breath was makin' me sick ta me stomach. Couldn't get her offa me, an' I didn't wanna be alone with her, so I told her I wanted ta go back to tha party. Told her I wanted ta show off da prettiest goil in Brooklyn."

He laughed mirthlessly. "She loved that. Jumped up all gigglin. So we came downstairs, an' that's when ya showed up." Spot looked at Race, his face serious.

"I shouldn'ta let her hang onta me, an' I shouldn't a let her kiss me," he admitted. "Just kept thinkin' about how Pocket didn't want me no more, an' how da boys said I lost me touch. Figured I'd show 'em I could still get any goil I wanted."

A long moment passed as Spot's words hung in the air. Spot watched anxiously as Race mulled over everything.

"I didn't do nothin, Race. I know I shoulda stopped her, I know I fucked up, but I didn't do nothin' like ya think I did. Ya gotta believe me," he said desperately.

Racetrack did believe him, and he said as much, but he couldn't give Spot the absolution he craved. All he could do was lay a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder.

"I ain't the one ya gotta say all this to," he said reluctantly. "It don't mattah what I think."

Spot nodded hopelessly and shuffled over to sit on the bed, shoulders bowed under the weight of his sadness. Race hesitated, then went to sit on the nightstand. The two boys sat in silence, each caught up in thoughts of a certain dark haired newsgirl. The pain on Spot's face was a testament to the truth of his words, and Race accepted his explanation. In the back of his mind, the little gambler had never been able to reconcile what he thought he'd seen with the Spot he knew. Now that he knew Spot's side of the story, he could admit that the whole thing was a misunderstanding. It wouldn't be easy to make Pocket listen, but when she was ready, Race knew he had to try.

With a heavy sigh, Race held out the crumpled paper. This time Spot took it, and Race watched as his eyes flew over the page. When he finished reading, he looked up.

"So Jack's back?" he questioned. "How'd that happen?"

Race grinned. "Yeah, he's back. Found the Delancey's beatin' on Davey in an alley, afta he stopped them from messin' with Sarah and Les. Dey was roughin 'im up pretty good when Cowboy showed up an' soaked 'em. He came back an' told us he couldn't do it, couldn't be a scab, an' then we came up with this plan for the strike."

"An' everybody just took him back, no questions?" Spot asked dubiously.

"Not everybody," Race told him, smirking when Spot raised a questioning brow. "Pocket let him have it but good," he chuckled. "Nevah hoid her yell so much without takin' a breath. Put 'im in his place, she did. Let 'im know just what she thought about him runnin off while the rest of us tried to pick up the pieces. Told 'im he didn't desoive to come back afta she had to go beg the otha newsies to support us. Said nobody trusted her cuz he turned traitor." Racetrack smiled happily at the memory of Pocket's furious tirade.

"So . . .?" Spot pushed.

"So he tells her he's sorry, an' that he knows what he did, an' he knows if it wasn't for her we woulda fallen apart. Asked her ta give 'im anotha shot. She told him she would as long as he kept his head outta his ass."

A short laugh escaped Spot's lips, the first real laughter in days. "That's me goil," he said admiringly. "Nevah did hold back, did she?"

His face sobered again, settling into determined lines as he pushed thoughts of Pocket aside. Talking about her did seem to push him towards a decision, though, and he stood, nodding decisively.

"Ya need Brooklyn." It was a statement, not a question.

Racetrack nodded. "We sent word out ta all the othas, like I said. But we still need ya, Spot. So I'se hear ta ask ya again, Spot. You with us?"

"I'se with ya," Spot assured him. "Brooklyn is behind ya."

He grabbed his cane and made for the stairs, intending to gather his troops, but Racetrack stopped him.

"Don't do this for Pocket," he warned. "If you'se with us, then fine. God knows we need ya. But if ya come, don't come for Pocket. Ya did that last time. This ain't about her, it's about alla us, an' if you'se in, it's gotta be because ya really believe it. Ya gotta believe we can win."

Racetrack went to the stairs, turning at the last minute to look at Spot. "Ya know, Conlon, it's ya ego got ya inta this mess. Foist ya told her she had ta obey ya cuz she's ya goil. Then ya let ya pride make ya stupid. Ya wouldn'ta looked twice at that goil if ya wasn't so worried 'bout what ya boys was thinking."

He paused, holding Spot's gaze, his next words showing an insight beyond his years. "You'se the King a Brooklyn, an' it's right that's important to ya. But if ya ain't careful, Spot, Brooklyn's gonna be all ya got left. An' Brooklyn's grand, but she's only yours as long as ya hang onta her. Then ya ain't gonna be left with nothin."

Having said his piece, Race headed downstairs without waiting for a response, leaving Spot stunned in the middle of the room. He hoped Spot would listen, hoped his words would sink in past the other boys stubborn defenses. And he hoped he hadn't just ruined everything, but he couldn't regret speaking his mind. Spot and Pocket were his friends, both of them, and he hated the fierce pride that was keeping them apart.

No sound came from the loft as Racetrack made his way through the bunkroom. Heart heavy, he put his hand on the door, steeling himself to face Blink and Skittery and tell them he'd failed.

"Race."

The sound of his name made him turn, he looked up to see Spot leaning over the stair rail. The Brooklyn leader's face was set in it's familiar cold mask, but his voice throbbed with sincerity.

"I ain't nothing without her, Race," Spot said. "She's everythin' ta me, everythin I've wanted for the last five years, an' I ain't givin her up."

He clenched his jaw, his posture emanating determination. Racetrack swallowed his disappointment at Spot's declaration. Spot had always been devoted to Brooklyn, he was Brooklyn, and that single-mindedness had served him well. Since his rise to power, he'd served Brooklyn with unbending loyalty, giving everything he had to the city he loved so much. Racetrack knew that, but he'd hoped to see the day when Brooklyn came second.

"Brooklyn ain't nothin," Spot said softly, drawing a shocked gasp from Racetrack. "Not without Pocket. I'd give it up tamarra if it meant she'd come back."